


What We Have Left

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Implied Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2416304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The escort this year is new. She introduces herself and waits, like she’s expecting applause. No one claps. She clears her throat, pastel green mouth stretching into a broad smile, and she reaches into the Reaping bowl, nails like talons scratching at the bottom. She pulls out a folded paper and leans into the microphone.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Lydia Martin!”</i>
</p><p>Lydia is Reaped and Allison copes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Have Left

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn't want a Hunger Games AU with Allydia?

She’s light on her feet; bow in one hand, arrow in the other. A trail of snapped branches and unsettled dirt have led her deep into the forest, and it doesn’t take long before she comes upon her prey. The grey rabbit stands up on its hind legs, nose twitching like it’s sniffing out danger on the wind.

She notches her arrow, pulls back the string, and lets it fly. The arrowhead finds its mark; it’s a clean shot. She quickly prepares the rabbit, tucks it into her game bag, and continues on. The snares are empty, but not untouched. She doesn’t have much daylight left to prepare a cleverer set-up, so she resets what she can, and pushes back towards the fence. There’s a chance she might never come back to this forest, but terror trumps her nostalgia.

Reaping day is tomorrow.

 

-

 

The escort this year is new. She introduces herself and waits, like she’s expecting applause. No one claps. She clears her throat, pastel green mouth stretching into a broad smile, and she reaches into the Reaping bowl, nails like talons scratching at the bottom. She pulls out a folded paper and leans into the microphone.

“Lydia Martin!”

A hushed murmur ripples across the courtyard like audible relief. Lydia stands from her seat on the stage, arms held rigidly at her side. She’s wearing a new dress this year, strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a low bun. The escort waves her on with an impatient giggle, and Lydia steps forward to take her place, front and center.

Allison’s ears ring. A terrible combination of fear and confusion and freedom churns in her stomach, pricks at her neck like needles. Lydia only had five tesserae in the bowl. She had twenty-seven. Of anyone that could have been chosen, it shouldn’t have been Lydia, and yet.

They move on to the boys, but Allison doesn’t hear who is called next.

 

-

 

The line to bid goodbye is long, and Allison has to promise her rabbit and a loaf of bread she doesn’t have to the guard before he lets her in. Lydia is standing in the middle of a threadbare rug when she slips through the double doors. Her eyes are bloodshot.

“Allison,” Lydia says, voice watery. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“You’ll be okay, Lyds,” she says. Her voice has gone watery, too. “I taught you how to shoot. Remember?”

She laughs, low and harsh. “I made you show me how to notch an arrow—just one. And the string bruised my wrist so bad I didn’t talk to you for a week.”

Allison remembers, the memory pulling a choked laugh right out of her. She did take Lydia into the woods one year, when the snow fell heavy and the fence went unguarded. She’d pulled the weakened links up, and Lydia had crawled under on her hands and knees. Snow had stuck to her thick stockings in clumps and then melted through, but she hadn’t complained. They’d walked and walked and talked, their breath turning to white steam, and she’d showed Lydia the secret (the arrows, the bow, the snares) her father had passed on to her years before. She was the mayor’s daughter, but she’d never said a word.

She reaches out and takes Lydia’s hands into her own. They’re soft, free of callouses and scars. Against her own—one oddly healed pinky from a childhood fall, a pale burn mark from a wayward coal—they’re beautiful, unblemished. Lydia lived an untroubled life, as untroubled as it could be in their District anyway, and now she is supposed to kill or survive or die. 

“I don’t need a bow.” She curls her fingers around Allison’s hands. “There are other ways to win. The other tribute—I think I have a plan.”

Allison breathes in. “What?”

“You’ll see,” she says. “Just, trust me.”

She does.

 

-

 

The other tribute is the head peacekeeper’s son. He’s tall, and clumsy, but he gets a 7 for his training score. Lydia scores a 2. The numbers make Allison sick.

At the final interview, Stiles reveals that he’s been in love with Lydia for years, that he can’t stand the thought of being in the arena with her. He’s convincing, and Lydia flushes beautifully under the bright lights when it’s her turn.

“I’ve been in love with Stiles for years, too,” she admits, and then recounts a story from the third grade. A solitary tear slips down her cheek, and the audience gasps and moans like they’ve been stabbed. “I never thought—I thought I had all the time in the world.”

Allison watches the video feed in the town square, aggressively coring an apple with her pocketknife. Everything coming out of Lydia’s mouth is a lie, a fabrication. She knows, because _she_ was the one that tugged on Lydia’s pigtails back then. The story was theirs, but now it belongs to Stiles and Lydia and the Capitol.

“She your friend?” 

She almost cuts her palm when she startles, and she casts a cautious look at the newcomer who’d managed to sneak up on her. He’s familiar, the name dancing on the tip of her tongue, and she says, “She is. Um—Derek Hale, right?”

He nods, a tiny jerk of his chin. 

Allison slices off a piece of her apple. She holds it out for him to take, if he wants it. He eyes the slice for a long moment, and then plucks it from between her fingers with another jerky nod.

“Did she never mention him to you?” He gestures towards the screen, where Stiles and Lydia are pressed together, twin smiles on their faces.

She frowns, ready to tell him off; the last thing she needs is someone hanging on the periphery, trying to leech information from her when she has to watch her best friend fight for her life—but he’s back to watching the video. Lydia isn’t on screen anymore. 

“Oh,” she says.

He drops his gaze to the cobblestone, and he says, “Yes, _oh_.”

 

-

 

The District shuts down at the start of the games for Capitol-mandated viewing. Their Tributes from decades past have never lasted longer than the first day, and spirits are low. Lydia was beloved. Stiles had friends. It feels like a funeral.

Allison finds Derek in the crowd. They don’t speak. After all, they’re rooting for their own players, though the team is the same. Still, it’s nice to have someone.

Onscreen, Lydia runs at the sound of the gong, swipes a backpack and a knife and disappears into the forest. Stiles stabs another tribute through the stomach with a long sword and then gets lost in the fray. Blood runs freely at the cornucopia, staining patches of grass rusty red.

Twenty minutes later, the initial fighting has died down. The cannons blast. Faces flicker onscreen. Highlight reels play in the background. Eight are dead, but Lydia and Stiles are not among them.

Derek leaves and Allison exhales slowly, hands clasped together in front of her chest. 

Lydia used to call her fearless. She’s not anymore.

 

-

 

Seven days later, there are two Victors.

Fourteen days later, they come home on the train.

Allison finds Lydia on the platform, when the cameras are done flashing and the swarm of well-wishers have dispersed. She’s wearing a Capitol dress made of pale pink chiffon, color like the peonies that bloom in the fields beyond the fence in spring.

“Allison,” she says.

Allison smiles, brittle but happy. “You’re here.”

“I am,” she agrees. “I’m here with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you dug it! It's my first time writing tw femslash, so, let me know what you think. C:
> 
> -
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://dansunedisco.tumblr.com)!


End file.
